


I'm Not The Man They Think I Am At Home (I'm A Glasses Man)

by TT40_Angst_Queen



Series: Glasses Man [1]
Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TT40_Angst_Queen/pseuds/TT40_Angst_Queen
Summary: When you're a part of the mob, you have to watch your back for any knives that are being aimed at it. You have to be sharp, ruthless, cunning. Mob life is not pretty, is not fun. It's harsh, brutal, and efficient. One wrong word, one wrong move, can have you swimmin' down the lake before you know it.Ryan "Six-Six" Stiles is ruthless, cunning, swift in enforcing his rule. His one weakness is children, and women.Colin "Bull" Mochrie is Cunning, strong willed, sly, and ruthless, but he still has a heart. His one weakness is his younger brother, Greg Proops.Greg "Glasses Man" Proops is Sarcastic, Sharp witted, smart, and the best shot around. His one weakness is his older brother, but will his mounting debts cause him to put Colin on the backburner?Chief Detective Clive Anderson is smart, loyal, kind and focused. Determined to solve the many cases the mob throws at him, as well as capture the bosses themselves, Clive heads down a determined path of justice.Aka "Glasses Man" The Prequel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and Co-Authored With SoloChaos.
> 
> Please Comment, Kudos, and Subscribe!

The office was bubbling with activity, people walking to and fro, trying to get one thing or another, chatting about the latest case and whatnot, and generally going about their workday in a normal manner.

 

Chief Detective Clive Anderson envied them all.

 

Sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, Clive looked over his case notes for what felt like the hundredth time in the last three hours. When he came to America after being transferred not only by district, but also by country a year ago, he’d thought that maybe his job would be harder, but he had no idea of the absolute _mess_ Americans made of their cities. What he wouldn’t give to have Perkins knocking down his door right now for a simple robbery, or a missing teen they could bring back an hour later. Normal stuff.

 

No, America had to have the bloody _mafia_ around every corner. Well, not every corner. Just a few.

 

There was Six-Six Stiles and his mob, named after his height. Their mark was a Paw Print. Usually only given to Stiles inner circle.

 

There was Big Mike McShane and his associates, named after the mans weight. Their mark was a simple two lines on the smalls of their backs.

 Tony ‘Tiny’ Slattery, named after his height, and his circle, their mark being an X on their forearms.

 

Then there was Colin ‘Bull’ Mochrie, his name due to his unusual strength. They didn’t have a mark yet, and according to the files, nor did they have solid proof that they had done anything illegal, considering Mochrie nor any of his mob have ever been caught. It was known though, that Mochrie was a mob boss, they just couldn't prove it in court.

 

Six-Six and Bull were pretty young in their field, being mob bosses at the young ages of 24 and 26, but according to the files, they both started even younger, somewhere around 16  for Stiles, and 18 for Mochrie. They worked their way up the ranks with brutal efficiency. Stiles with brute force and Mochrie with working in the shadows, before killing their respective successors.

 

Clive jerked out of his thoughts as a knock sounded on his door. He quickly closed the file and put it in his lap before bidding the person to enter.

 

“Sir?” asked Howard Johnson, his hands fidgeting nervously on the doorknob. The man had become his unofficial assistant, and a great friend of his since coming to the US. The man took him under his wing, and helped him understand the complexities of living in America.

 

“Sir, I have a favour to ask you, if it's not too much to ask.” Clive’s mouth dipped down a bit, wondering what the man could possibly need, before leaning back in his seat.

 

“Of course, Johnson. It depends though, on what it is, I don’t quite think the Americans would allow me to raise your pay quite yet, though.” Clive almost winced and the feeble witticism that came from his mouth. He really did need some sleep.

 

Howard shook his head, grinning at his bosses attempt at humor. Stepping into Clive’s office, he shut the door, and sat down in the seat in front of the man’s desk.

 

“As you know, my wife has been pregnant for quite some time, sir. ”

 

Clive nodded, grinning happily. He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling.

 

“Oh, yes indeed. You make sure everyone knows how quite proud you are of it, too. How is Maria?” Clive laughed. “Still craving chips- sorry, fries and iced cream?” Howard grinned from ear to ear, grabbing his cuffs and straightening them, then jumped from his seat, his hands planted on Clive's desk, slightly startling the British man.

 

“Nope, no cravings anymore, as you’re now lookin’ at the proud father of a son named Rory Loui Johnson, nine pounds, all ten fingers an’ toes,” Howard smiled dreamily, his eyes far away. “He’s got my red hair, and my wife’s curls and her lovely green eyes.. Never seen a more beautiful child, sir.” Clive chuckled at his friends dopy look.

 

“Ah yes, I’m sure he is, you must let me see him sometime.” Howard nodded at Clive, his grin still a mile wide.

 

“Of course, sir! Maria would love to see you again. We actually were wondering sir, if you wouldn’t be the Godfather of our little one?” Clive almost choked on thin air. The man had only known him a year! And he entrusted the care of his newborn child to him?

 

“Of course, it would be an honor, my friend,” Clive said humbly. After all, it wasn't something that you refused. Especially to Maria Johnson, not if you wanted all of your hearing intact.  

 

“Thank you, Sir. I was wonderin’ in light of the occasion, if I might bother you for a month or two off, just so I can help the wife with the baby, you see? She’s scared to handle it alone an’ all..” Clive clucked his tongue.

“But of course, Howard! Just let me write up some forms.” Clive reached into his desk, and pulled out a small pile of forms.

 

“How does three weeks paid leave, and four weeks unpaid leave sound?” Clive smiled at Howard’s joyous laugh.

 

“Of course Clive, it sounds wonderful! You _must_ come over for dinner sometime; the wife and I insist!”

 

“Yes, of course Howard. How about this Saturday?” Clive signed on the dotted line, and motioned for Howard to do the same.

 

“That sound great. I’ll tell Maria to be expectin’ you.” Howard nodded at his boss, the smile still bright on his face. Shaking the man's hand, Clive watched as he went to leave the office, before turning around, a frown on his lips.

 

“And Clive, you should really get some sleep. You’re lookin’ a little ill.” Then he closed the door, walking out of the office.

 

Clive sighed as he brought out the folder, looking at it before sighing. Howard was right, he really did need some sleep. He reached for his office phone.

 

“Karen? Yes, I think I’ll be retiring to home early this evening, can you take all my calls? Thank you.”

 

* * *

  


A gunshot rang out in a large, dilapidated warehouse by the ocean. Seagulls squawked in shock at the sudden noise and took to the air, flying away to a safer area only meters away where a dumpster caught their attention.

 

Inside the warehouse, Six-Six Stiles lowered his gun, watching dispassionately as two of his lackeys dragged the body away. The green eyes of the especially tall man were harsh, and the shadows of the building at twilight darkened his face and hair, casting lines upon a tanned face and sinister smile.

 

“You understand what I’m sayin’ Righetti?” The thin, mousy man in a worn suit, trembling in his patched leather shoes, nodded his head frantically.

 

“Course, Boss, I’ll get ya’ the money next week, yeah?”

 

Stiles snarled and swung his gun into his belt, before whipping out a knife and slashing at Righetti’s face, leaving a long, deep cut that was sure to scar. The mousy man yelped and stumbled back, bumping into two burly men in suits behind him, making sure he didn't run. Righetti gulped and started to sweat.

 

“Not good enough ya’ piker. Ya’ get me that twenty large* by tomorrow, or I’ll fill ya’ full of lead, capiche?” Ryan snarled at the cowering man. Ryan’s hands twitched toward his gun, Righetti seeing where his hands were going, yelped in fear.

 

“Course boss, whatever ya’ say, jus’ don’t pop me off, I got a wife an’ kid at home, she’s only two!”  Ryan’s scowl deepened, and he crossed his arms, his face darkening in anger. But not at Righetti.

 

“Then ya’ better hope ya’ can get me that twenty grand by tomorrow, don’cha’? The man nodded frantically.

 

“Now scram, or I’ll reconsider my offer,” Six-Six Stiles hissed, making the man bolt out of the warehouse, the two goons behind him moving out of his way.

 

Stiles waited until the man was long gone, his panicked footsteps echoing down the quiet warehouse district of LA. Turning around to the simple wooden table and sitting down at the chair behind it, he turned narrowed eyes at his goons, specifically, Eddie “Bird” Izzard. Named for his choice of wearing smudged eyeliner.  

 

“Izzard,” Stiles spoke softly, dangerously. The bleach blond man gulped, his grey eyes widening, and sweat beading under his fedora.

 

“Yeah, Boss?” Izzard whimpered. Pathetic, Ryan thought. Unfortunately, the man's skills in breaking and entering made him valuable, so he couldn't rub him out.

 

“You know the rules.”

 

“Boss?”

 

Stiles shot a bullet right by Izzard’s foot, causing the man to yelp and the cement to chip. Some flew up and cut the man’s face, blood dripping down his cheek.

 

“I told all of you,” Six-Six Stiles growled, eyes piercing through every man in the room.

 

“We don’t take money from cats that have a child under 15! Them’s the rules, boys… and all of ya’ failed on that with Righetti!” Stiles was shouting at this point, his eyes blazing, and his goons were cowering from their boss’s rage, and Ryan was breathing like a bull.

 

“Izzard!” Six-Six barked, “Come ‘ere.” The trembling man walked unsteadily towards Six-Six Stiles, his breathing laboured. He stopped in front of the tall man, shaking in his boots.

 

“Give me your hand, Bird.” Ryan told Izzard, his voice quiet, face blank.

 

Izzard complied slowly, his hand shaking slightly.

 

Ryan took his knife from his suit pocket, and in one swift movement, he sliced off Izzard’s right index finger, and the man’s scream rang through the warehouse.

 

Ryan grabbed the man's face before he could stumble back, and he spoke in the same hard but quiet tone as before.

 

“Now that ya’ learned your lesson, I’ll do ya’ a swell thing, ya palooka.” Stiles grabbed his box of matches, and with one hand holding firm onto Izzard’s bleeding hand, he used his other hand to strike his lighter, and he brought the lighter to Izzard’s stump where his finger used to be. The man’s tortured screams rang once again through the warehouse, and Six-Six ignored them until he was satisfied that the wound was cauterized. Letting go of the man’s hand, Stiles watched at Izzard brought his hand protectively close to his chest.

 

“Have ya’ all gotten the idea?” Ryan asked the room. Most of the men were white as a sheet, cowering, and they all nodded, fear on their faces.

 

“Good. Back to the main joint then.”

 

* * *

  


The tapping of fingers on a tabletop was swallowed up by the noise of one of the most prominent luxury Gin mill’s* in LA.  A woman sang in the corner with a band, her lyrical voice filling the area just enough that it was heard over the chatter, her usually bushy hair done up in sleek curls, her long red dress with beaded embellishments sparkling in the gentle light of low-light chandeliers and candles. Her pale skin reflected the glow, and her white toothed smile lit up the room, many a man staring at her with lust, unaware that she could drop them all on their ass within a few seconds, before they could open their yaps, or get handsy with the bird.

 

The man tapping his fingers on the dark wood of the tabletop in the top, private balcony above the establishment, turned to one of the men sitting beside him, his eyes on a certain man who had been repeatedly kicked out of the joint over the 5 years _“The Whose Line”_  had been open. Motioning to the man his eyes were on, he murmured to his right hand man beside him;

“Hal McClain's at it again, Tryin’ to get at Ms. Lawrence. Mind making’ him scram outta’ here, Sherwood?” Brad “Slugger” Sherwood, (named after both his ability to knock out a man twice his size and his uncanny ability to fall down over and over and just get back up every time.) nodded at his Boss.

 

“You got it, boss. Handsy won’t know what hit em.’” Colin “Bull” Mochrie nodded absently, still keeping an eye of the chubby Hal “Handsy” McClain.

 

“Just get it done,” Mochrie replied, still glaring at Hal. Sherwood nodded, and went down the steps.

 

Mochrie watched the altercation, if it could be called that; Slugger just up and grabbed the short man, and carried him bodily out of the club, literally throwing him on his ass.

 

When Colin “Bull” Mochrie first got into the “business” at eighteen years old, he knew he didn’t want to be like all the rest. He didn’t want people to be able to prove he was Mafia, so he waited in the shadows, recruiting, and schmoozing his way until he was able to get the man who had killed his parents and sister and turned him down a life of crime, he killed him swiftly and without mercy, inheriting John “Showoff” Sessions’ mob without any trouble. He got rich, with a few words here and there, and built this club, “ _The Whose Line_ ” , to put up a front. In the back was some illegal gambling, and in the very back was his personal office.

 

To everyone else, he was just an unassuming Canadian with adorable brown puppy eyes.

 

But even puppies bite.

 

And Colin, he may be gentler than Six-Six Stiles.

 

But when he bit, he mauled.

 

* * *

  


“Why couldn’t they have transferred me to Scotland? Is a little sanity too much to ask?” Clive spoke to the sky. For god's sake, this wasn’t 1920, it was 1974! Only _America_ would be this gun-happy! _Honestly_ . It was _insane_.

 

Clive stared down at the recently recovered body from the blank warehouse in Santa Monica. It looked like he could cross Big Mike McShane off his list. It seemed the man got the bad end of a business deal. If Clive had to guess who, he would say Slattery had a hand in it. But without proof, he couldn’t prove anything. As usual. They could pin a number of things on the goons of every mafia boss in LA, except Bull Mochrie’s, but trying to pin anything on the actual Big Cheeses of any of the Mobs? _Good Bloody Luck._ It was impossible to charge them with anything, because either they didn’t get their hands dirty, or they terrified the person enough that they wouldn’t rat them out.

 

“Looks like Tiny’s gang’s work, Boss.” Detective Julie Hilliard, a nice young woman with nerves of steel spoke to him. She was standing in for Johnson while he was away on leave. Hilliard walked toward the body, and pointed out the X cut into the man's forehead, along with a gunshot wound right in the center.

 

“It _is_ his pattern, carve the X after a little torture.” She pointed out the numerous cuts and burns along the body, wincing at a particularly nasty one on the man's….manhood, before speaking again. “Then carving an X in the forehead and playing target practice.” She pointed out a few chinks and dents in the cement and the wall. “Looks like he had a newbie try the shot this time, the shooter missed at _least_ five times. Usually doesn’t miss at _all_.” Clive nodded at Hilliard’s observations. But there was something…

 

“Yes, but this is a bit more violent than usual. Not to mention that the bosses usually leave each other alone; they don’t attack each other, only the goons.” Clive frowned, noticing the particular and new pattern of Slattery’s builtality. He was missing something. Something big.

 

“Why would he burn his genitalia? Slattery has never been one for that type of sadism before. Something happened between them...” Clive sighed. He couldn’t see what he was missing, but he knew the answer was staring him the face; he just couldn’t see it.

 

“Get the pictures taken; bag the evidence. I want the report in my file by tomorrow morning.” Clive turned to go, ready to think about this case later.

 

“Got plans, sir?” Hilliard raised an eyebrow. It was well known in the precinct that Chief Detective Clive Anderson was single, and gay. Unlike a lot of places, LA was pretty accepting of gays, unlike Clive’s old job, where it was said that his liking of the same sex got him transferred almost immediately after being discovered. They couldn’t have fired him without a revolt from the public, but they could send him away so that he couldn’t be near them.

 

Usually Anderson stayed at home, despite some of the officers attempts to set him up with people, he never seemed to find the right one. So him having plans on a Saturday night was different.

 

“I have dinner plans with Howard and his family. They asked me to be little Rory’s godfather.” The sparkle of joy in Clive’s eyes made a smile come to Julie’s lips. Now that made more sense. Howard and Clive were great friends, thick as thieves since Clive came over from the UK, and Julie wasn’t shocked at the news.

 

“Congrats, sir. I’m sure you’ll be a great godfather to the little one.” Julie waved a hand, shooing him. “Now go have dinner with your godson and his family. I’ll take care of everything here, you deserve a break.”  Clive grinned in relief, thanking her, and left, questions on the case still buzzing in his mind.

 

Maybe a little time away spent with friends would refresh his skills.

 

* * *

 

“Goddammit Slattery!” Ryan growled, throwing the newspaper down on his maplewood desk.

 

Ryan whipped out the bottle of whisky from his liquor cabinet and poured himself a fair amount, his hand shaking in anger. The blond man downed the drink in one go, then poured himself another glass, sipping slowly.

 

“I told him not to get involved...” Ryan muttered, his jaw clenched. He had told his business partner, Big Mike, to stay away from Tony ‘Tiny’ Slattery.  He knew that their relationship, even though McShane claimed it was only physical, would backfire.

 

It seemed Tony figured out Mike didn’t return his feelings. Tony always was soft went it came to his heart.

 

And he was also very cruel when it was broken.

  


* * *

**Solo Chaos’s Part**

* * *

 

“Big news, Boss.”

 

Colin “Bull” Mochrie looked up to see Brad “Slugger” Sherwood enter the room.

 

“Yeah?” Mochrie asked, putting down his pen.

 

Sherwood closed the door behind him. “Big Mike?” he said, looking almost childlike with glee. “Got himself cut down. Ya’ hear ‘bout it?”

 

“Mm,” Mochrie said. He’d heard about three hours ago, but Sherwood was usually more tolerable when he’d thought he had something over Mochrie.

 

“Heard it was real messed up, too,” Sherwood said, tone almost gossipy. “Totally messed up the guy’s junk. Nasty stuff, y’know?”

 

“Huh,” Mochrie said, actually surprised by this. All he’d heard was that Big Mike got himself whacked by Tiny, and that had been it.

 

“Yeah,” Sherwood said, resting his hip on the side of Mochrie’s desk. “So, what’s our next move?”

 

 _“Your_ next move, Sherwood, is to keep doing what you’re doing. Keep runnin’ this joint smoothly,” Mochrie said, going back to the letter he was drafting. _“My_ next move ain’t none of your business.”

 

He didn’t have to look up to know Sherwood was scowling. “C’mon, boss. How long have I been wit’ ya? Don’t ya think I deserve to know?”

 

Mochrie raised his eyebrows. “‘Deserve to know?’” he echoed. “Gettin’ a little full of yourself, eh, Slugger?”

 

Sherwood gritted his teeth, but he knew when to back down. “Message received, Boss,” he grumbled.

 

“Mm,” Mochrie said. “Close the door on your way out.”

 

Sherwood let out a disdained scoff, but he followed Mochrie’s orders. Good. Mochrie really wasn’t in the mood to make him apologize.

 

Mochrie sighed as he folded the letter up and sealed in an envelope. He’d already notified some of Big Mike’s contacts, telling them he’d expect to see them tomorrow night. This letter was for the final contact he’d needed to reach.

 

He got up, wanting to stretch his legs. He turned to the window in his office. It really was a lovely view; the lights of L.A. shining brightly, the Pacific crashing against land in the distance.

 

Colin had always had a sense of loneliness deep within himself. At times like these, when it was just himself, the rest of the world shining in the distance, that sense was at his strongest. He’d thought it would’ve ended a long time ago, when he killed that fucker who took his family from him, but that distinct sense of loneliness had never gone away.

 

He stared out the window, thinking about tomorrow, thinking about Mike, Tony, Brad, thinking about the world, thinking about nothing.

**End Of Solo Chaos’s Part**

* * *

 

* * *

 

“Fuck!” Ryan “Six-Six” Stiles screamed, throwing the first object he could find against the nearest wall. The clay representation of Buddha hit the wall and shattered, the fragile figurine not leaving so much as a dent in the reinforced wall.

 

The green-eyed man slumped down in his seat, rubbing his hands together in irritation.

 

“Are you sure, Brady?”

 

Wayne “Copycat” Brady (named after his talent to copy the voice and mannerisms of almost anyone he spent five minutes observing) nodded at his boss. “Yessir, an’ Mochrie got them all, sent all the letters before the papers went out.”

 

Stiles scowled. How the hell did that palooka know before him? From all accounts, Bull Mochrie was the person he counted on to be the least threatening of all the mobs in LA.

 

Ryan turned his chair around and stared out the window into the LA sky, Dawn just starting to peak over the horizon. Steepling his fingers together, Stiles spoke slowly, and carefully, thinking about what he said before he spoke, something he rarely did.

 

“Copycat.”

 

Wayne shifted, the young teen, 17 years old in fact, was eager to please the man that took him off the streets, and raised him since he was ten, showing him how to survive in the world, and how harsh and cutthroat ‘the business’ could be. “Yessir?”

 

Ryan took out a tobacco stick and lit it, sucking in a deep breath of it, then blowing out, watching the smoke rise in the air. “Write a letter for me, will ya’?”

 

Wayne nodded, and grabbed a pen and paper, and poised himself to write.

 

“Address it ‘Bull Mochrie”. Put the day, Tuesday, 12 AM, Warehouse 67, Santa Monica.” Ryan sucked another breath of nicotine.“Sign it, Six-Six Stiles.”  

 

Wayne nodded, then sealed the letter in an envelope, and waited.

 

“Go give it ta’ Mailbird Murphy, tell him it’s fer’ Bull Mochrie.” Ryan paused. “If he doesn’t want ta’ go, remind  Murphy I could give ‘im another cap in his ass if he wants that instead.” Wayne nodded, eagerly leaving the room to get his task complete.

 

“Great kid.” Ryan chuckled. Best decision he ever made was taking that kid in. Wayne was the second reason he didn’t like taking money from cats that had kids under fifteen. Ryan was glad that Bull Mochrie took care of John “Showoff” Sessions before he did. Stiles would not have been as merciful as Mochrie was, with a simple shot to the head. He hated people like Sessions, who didn’t care for the children who couldn’t take care of themselves, and ended up on the streets when their parents were killed or conned of their money. Fifteen and up could work for themselves, get jobs and feed themselves, but under that, they were helpless. Babes that could be picked off like cattle in the big bad world.

 

It reminded him of his own childhood, when he was eight, and his father had come home, his hair matted with sweat, trembling, frightened, _Just like Righetti,_ his mind told him, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

 

His father had told his mother they no longer had enough money to live on, that the loan he borrowed from a business partner, one he admitted to being a mob boss, was due, and he had to pay it. He did, and they were homeless afterwards.

 

It took a month before his father popped himself. Two before his mother died from sickness, unable to care for herself without money.

 

They left an eight year old boy, confused, scared, and homeless.

 

Ryan raised himself from that day on. He hardened himself to the world, and he taught himself that ruthlessness, cunning, a firm hand and fear, got him far.

 

At 16 years old, Ryan joined the mob.

 

At 18, he ran his own.

 

Ryan was brought back to the present by the cry of a seagull. The ocean view he had in his mansion was fantastic. The sky had lightened significantly while he had been reminiscing. The ocean sparkled under the light of a new day, sparkling like diamonds.

 

He had worked hard to get where he was. He was not going to be upstaged nor uprooted by Mochrie.

 

“Who are you, Colin Mochrie?” Ryan muttered, his voice echoing in the silence.

 

The cry of a gull gave no answers.

* * *

 

Bull Mochrie spent a lot of time building his small, but strong empire. His manipulations and threats from the shadows, along with swift, clean reinforcement when necessary, gave him the string of clubs, pubs, and the one orphanage he checked up on every Tuesday. His way of dealing with Brad was necessary, because if you gave the man an inch he would take a mile. His own brother reprimanded him for being so harsh with the young man, who was only 19. Greg always was a bit soft, but Colin knew that if he wasn't careful he could lose what he spent so much time and effort building. He didn't feel like going in the chair, as the electric cure would not be something he wanted any time soon.

 

So this sudden note from Six-Six Stiles had him on edge, and he knew that if he didn’t play his cards carefully and close to his chest, you could end up with cement boots and taking a dive in the nearest LA lake.

 

“You’re dismissed, Murphy. Tell Six-Six I’ll be there. Alone,” Colin made sure the trembling man was focused on him when he said, “ And make sure ta’ tell Six-Six Stiles that I expect for him to do the same.” Colin gazed out his window, noting the ocean was sparkling like diamonds, reflecting in his eyes. “After all, it's a peaceful meetin’, no need fer’ anyone ta’ go off the track. I have no intention of bumpin’ ‘im off.”

 

Murphy nodded quickly, then fled, the door slamming closed in his wake. Colin swiftly got up and left his office and into the Illegal gambling area of one of his clubs “ _The Neon Love Chicken”_ a club for men to enjoy the exotic dancers in the front, no touching allowed, as Colin may be a mobster, but he took care of his girls.

 

Colin entered the room, nobody taking notice of the unassuming Canadian immigrant, and made his way toward the bar, where his brother was working temporarily for a bit of extra cash. His debts were small right now but Colin was sure that soon enough, the government would be knockin’ on his door to collect the massive amount he would no doubt owe. Colin loved his brother, he really did. He was the last of his family left, he was younger then him, at 20 years old, his Buddy Holly looks and glasses were very distinctive , giving him the nickname Greg “Glasses Man” Proops. Yes, they had different last names. Their father never did like Greg, and though he was never physical or verbal about it, he showed it by giving Greg their mother's last name and paying little attention to him other than what was needed. While Colin was praised for his good marks, Greg was told he could do better. But then, Greg was never a very dedicated student. He prefered to learn on his own and form his own opinions. Greg’s great dislike of the government was very much known, and some said that he wouldn’t pay them just out of spite. But Colin knew that wasn't true. Greg couldn't honestly pay them back. He couldn't keep a job, his sarcastic manner and abrasive personality made him hard to work with customers, and without a high school education, he couldn't do any job that could pay him the money he needed to pay off his debts. Bull Mochrie had offered his brother money, had offered to pay him more than enough to live on, but Greg’s stubborn nature made him refuse any type of charity.

 

“Greg,” Colin muttered to the man at the bar, making sure that nobody was listening in, shooting a glare at a man sitting close that had the palooka scurrying like the devil was on his tail.

 

“Whadya’ need, boss?” Greg smirked, wiping down one of the fancy crystal tumblers specially made for important guests. He poured a finger of scotch and handed it to Mochrie, and the grey haired man sipped on it.

 

“I’m meeting Six-Six Stiles tonight, so I won’t be home from the little biters home until late. Won’t be goin’ straight home this time, Six-Six wants ta’ meet at midnight, told ‘im to come alone, ya’ follow?” Colin took another sip of the Scotch, his fingers twitching as he noticed Greg's eyes widening, and his face growing pale as a dolls nightshift.

 

“Colin, are ya’ _goofy_ ?” Greg hissed, his eyes like flames in his skull. Greg planted his shaking hands down on the table, and looking from side to side for any stoolies. “Six-Six Stiles is _The_ most dangerous cat you’ll ever see. He’s ruthless, harsh, blackhearted; He sliced off Bird Izzard’s pointer finga’ couple a’ days ago, just ta’ teach ‘im a lesson!” Greg grabbed Colins hands in his own shaking one, and squeezed them. The brown eyes behind large plastic frames bored into Colin’s pleadingly.

 

“Please, you’re all I have left, Col. please don’ go, he’ll pop ya’, no hesitation. Whadda’m I supposed ta’ do then? I can’t-” Greg sniffed, his eyes wet, and Colin looked away guiltily. He hated causing his brother any pain, be it emotional or physical, but he had to do this. He needed to smooth things over with Stiles.

 

“Greg, shut yur’ yap, I’m gonna’ be fine ya’ palooka.” Colin’s eyes softened at Greg’s hurt look. The young man was still so innocent, even after all these years.

 

“Greg, bud, I need ta’ do this.” Colin squeezed his hands harder into Greg’s when it was looking like he would interrupt.

 

“Six-Six is angry. Big Mike was a business partner of ‘is, an’ my collectin’ of McShane’s goons, and inheiritin’ ‘is business’, got ‘is  feathers all ruffled. I have ta’ smooth things over.” Colin rubbed his thumb along Greg's hand. Greg was the one bright spot in his lonely world, and he treated him gently. Maybe that was why he was still so innocent.

 

“I need ta’ have Stiles on our good side, ya hear? I can’t lose this,” Colin waved around him, “This empire I’ve built fer’ us. And getting the Wolf Mob on our side is the way ta’ do it.” Greg nodded, reluctantly, and let him go. He started wiping down the bar.

 

“Just be careful, Col.” Greg muttered, gently.

 

“I will, lil’ brotha’.” Colin whispered, leaning forward, and pressing his lips gently to his brother's forehead.

 

“Doncha’ worry,” Colin let go of his brother, his eyes staring into identical brown ones.

 

“I’ll be fine.”

* * *

  


“Boss?” Came the hesitant voice of Tony’s right hand man, Paul “Pigeon” Merton. Named for his usefulness in hearing whatever was going on around LA and surrounding areas.

 

“Yes, love?” Paul rolled his eyes when he was sure Tiny couldn’t see him. His boss just murdered his last lover, and now he wanted to flirt with him? Not _bloody_ likely.

 

“Bull Mochrie’s bin’ takin’ Big Mike’s contacts, and Six-Six Stiles ‘as takin’ offence to it. There gonna meet up at warehouse 67, tonight at midnight sir.”

 

Slattery turned around in his chair in a suitably dramatic movement, making Paul resist rolling his eyes once again, or be clipped.

 

“Are you sure, Merton?” Tiny drawled, raising an eyebrow pompously. It was a wonder anyone took the man seriously, let alone was afraid of him. The man was as camp as a forest trailerpark.

 

“Yeah, Boss, I’m sure.” Paul added enough fear in his voice that Slattery would believe he was scared.

 

Tony narrowed his eyes, placing his hands together like a prayer.

 

“I want two of my hatchetmen standing at the ready in that warehouse.” Tony smirked, chuckling. “That will let me deal with two birds with one stone.” Tony cackled, spinning in his chair.

 

Paul rolled his eyes.

 

_How did this man ever become a mafia boss?_

 

* * *

 

“So you’re Bull Mochrie, then?” Ryan narrowed his eyes. The man didn’t look like much; his contacts informed him the man was only two years older than himself, yet the man’s hair was already grey, and he could see that it was thinning on top. The large brown eyes were unassuming at first look, kind of like a puppy. But Ryan used to have a puppy when he was five that was adorable. But it had fangs that could rip a man apart. That dog was his constant companion even after he became homeless. He fashioned his gang’s mark after a plaster cast of Fang’s paw, wanting to keep the memory of the dog alive. That dog took a bullet for him that would have ended his life. The man that fired the bullet didn’t live for much longer after that. Six-Six knew that they haven’t actually recovered every piece of the body.

 

Bull Mochrie’s gentle look was stripped away when you looked deeper into his eyes. The harsh coldness chilled Ryan, and he gave a mental shiver. The man was almost empty. He could see a small flame in there, one small flame of life. He wonder which cat or dame held the candle for that flame.

 

“And you’re Six-Six Stiles.” Bull Mochrie looked him up and down, analyzing him. “I can see why you’re called that. Ya’ remind me of a stick,” Bull smirked, his lip lifting. “With a big nose.” Stiles rose his eyebrow high on his forehead. _Did he just…?_ Ryan’s lip twitched, and he chuckled.

 

“I’ve chilled people fer’ less ya’ know.” Ryan pointed out.

 

Bull nodded, still smirking. “I’m aware.” Ryan laughed. He liked this guy. Which was weird. Usually anybody who gave him this much yap would be halfway down the lake by now.

 

“I dunno why, but I like ya’, Mochrie.” Mochrie placed his hands in his pockets, and rocked on his heels.

 

“I feel da’ same way, Stiles.”  

 

Ryan tilted his head. “You don’ talk much do ya’?”

 

“My Brotha’-” Mochrie started, before the sound of bullets ripped through the air, shooting at both of them, dispelling any thoughts of betrayal or set up.  Two more shots rang out, muffled this time with a silencer, and two bodies fell to the warehouse floor. The X on both their necks told them they were a gift from Tiny.

 

Mochrie and Stiles looked at each other, noticing neither one had brought out their guns. _Then who_ …?

 

“I told ya’ Col!” a nasally voice rang from the rafters.

* * *

 

* * *

 

**Solo Chaos’s Part**

* * *

 

It wasn’t that Brad didn’t _like_ Mochrie. On the contrary, he was quite fond of the man. That certainly hadn’t been his intention when he’d joined Mochrie’s mob; he’d planned to get in, keep his head down, and quietly earn Mochrie’s trust without really getting to know the man.

 

It was discomfiting, almost, how much he genuinely respected Mochrie. Wanted to please him. It was better, in all honesty, when Mochrie would shove him aside, belittle him, disparage him, make him feel like less. Not because Brad was some kind of freak who got off on that or whatever– just because it made it easier to hate him.

 

For Brad, hate was comfortable. It sat deep inside him, warming him, _driving_ him. It was easy to hate the way Mochrie would patronize him, easy to despise how he’d always be one step ahead. It was harder, though, to hate how competent Mochrie was. More than competent. He was a goddamned genius at what he did, and more than that, he was still human.

 

In a business like theirs, it was hard to keep your humanity, simply because a life of busting kneecaps and just generally screwing people over made it hard to live with your conscience.

 

Mochrie, though. He remembered birthdays and asked about his men’s children and always gave money to beggars on the street. He could even smile with genuine warmth when he’d want to, and that alone told Brad he was maybe the strongest man on Earth, being able to smile despite knowing how many people he’s screwed over.

 

Even when Mochrie would degrade Brad, push him back, overlook everything Brad’s done for him, he’d never leave Brad to lick his wounds alone for long. Even the briefest of apologies had Brad eager to please him again, panting like a dog at his heels.

 

It’s where he’d always find himself; kneeling at Mochrie’s side, begging for scraps. It didn’t matter how many times Mochrie would kick him– he’d always come back for more.

 

The only person he hated more than Mochrie, Brad thought, was himself.

**End of Solo Chaos’s Part**

* * *

 

Stiles, Colin noticed, had barely twitched when Greg dropped down from the rafters, other than a barely noticeable shift in his eyes to his own jacket, where Colin was sure Six-Six held his bean shooter. Mochrie found himself slightly impressed at the man’s instincts, because the Canadian was almost completely sure that if Stiles thought Greg was any sort of threat to him, then he would have had a bullet shooting straight for his brother’s head before Greg could process what was happening.

 

“I told ya’ comin’ here was a bad idea, Col, an’ I was right, ya’ both almost got chilled by Tiny’s goons!” Greg scowled. “ _Tiny’s_ goons! How could ya’ not notice them up in those rafters, Col?” Greg snorted, and Colin went to interrupt him before his brother got himself totally worked up, but Greg plowed on, his yapping filling the warehouse.

 

“I can’t _believe_ you were so reckless!” Greg shrieked, making both Stiles and Colin wince at the volume. “I coulda’ lost my brotha’, my last family memba’! I told ya’ I couldn't lose ya’, you palooka. What the fuck were ya’ thinkin’ dumbass’, that Pigeon Merton wasn’ gonna’ find out bout’ this lil’ tête-à-tête?” Colin clenched his jaw.

 

“Greg,” Colin’s low, controlled tone caused Greg to stop in his rant, and he paled, just realizing what he just revealed, and to whom.

 

“So you’re brothers. My contacts said you were the last of your family, Mochrie.” Stiles’ voice was loud in the silence of the large, empty warehouse, echoing off the walls. They could hear the crashing of the nearby waves, and the sound of a far away copper car, siren wailing in the night. You could cut the tension with a knife, and Colin gritted his teeth. His eyes bored into his little brothers.

 

Without looking away from Greg, he spoke to Stiles;

 

“Yeah, he’s my brotha’. An’ ya betta’ keep your yap shut bout’ it. Ya’ follow? I don’ care what warnin’ everyone keeps telling me about you, I’ll cap ya’ ass, capiche?”

 

Stiles nodded, his face blank, with a certain hint of respect in his eyes. “I understand. If I still had family, I would protect them too. You’re lucky, Mochrie.”

 

“I know.” Colin nodded at Stiles, finally looking away from his brother.

 

“I owe your brother a debt,” Stiles started. “I’ll begin by forgivin’ ya’ fer takin’ McShane's goons from unda’ my nose.” Colin nodded, knowing that he had to keep his mouth shut. The situation was fragile, and one wrong move could shatter the fragile peace they had formed.

 

One look at Greg made Colin know that Greg knew this, and Colin nodded at him, proud.

 

“The secon’ thing,” Stiles looked at Greg, and Colin twitched. “I owe you my life. Ya’ can ask me any favour ya’ want, and I’ll do my best ta’ deliver.” Stiles chuckled.

 

“I would save that, if I were you. And thirdly, I wanna become allies. That way, we both benefit, and we’ll have better protection from Tiny. One of my contacts tells me he’s bin’ recruitin’ more an’ more. His goons are around a hundred by now, his contacts are unknown. He’s buildin’ up ta’ somthin’ and I want to be prepared.”

 

Stiles held out his hand;

 

“Deal?” Colin barely had to think about it.

 

He shook the hand.

 

“Deal.”

 

Stiles’ grin was like a shark’s.

 

“Good.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Drew Carey was a extravagant man. He was well-bred, well groomed, impeccably dressed in a suit at all times when not in bed, and always had money to spend. Drew Carey was a rich man from a long line of rich men and women. That did not mean he didn't know how to handle money, that he spent it on everything and anything in sight; in fact, Drew Carey was a man that knew how to invest, how to spend while still looking his best and richest, and how to spot a good deal when he saw one. His family, from generation to generation, was well versed in investing and putting money in places and where they would benefit and get even more back. His family didn’t work, had paperwork given to hired accountants, and spent money on things that made them seem important and wealthy. The name Carey held a lot of weight, so it wasn’t surprising that he was eventually approached by someone wanting to use his name and money. 

 

It started on one of the warmest days that Drew had seen in many a year. Drew had woken up at the dawn of the day, as he usually did, and got dressed in his usual suit and tie, deciding that today he would wear a nice green tie, his suit being a pinstriped navy blue, and a nice pair of shiny black leather shoes. After showering, He combed his hair, placed his distinctive glasses upon his face, and got dressed. Satisfied with his appearance, he made his way out the door, slightly regretting his choice in clothing once he felt the hot summer weather beat down on his back. Trying to ignore the heat as best he could, he dismissed the errant thought of changing suits, as he didn't want to walk back to his room, which was on the third floor of his four-story mansion. Getting into the car waiting for him, he told his chauffeur to make the way to his usual Tuesday appointment before sitting back.

 

Arriving to his destination, he got out and made his way up to the front door of the orphanage, and greeted the matron. 

 

“Good morning, Mr. Carey. Here to see little Jonathan?” The matron, Mrs. Valerie Damshire, asked, her smile bright and wide. The woman's eyes crinkled at the side with age, and her face was wrinkled with age and her hair a light silver, but her blue eyes were as young and bright as ever, as she asked Drew the same question she did every Tuesday. 

 

Drew laughed, his blue-grey eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Of course, Valerie, how is he today?” Drew made his way towards the desk, Valerie coming around it to meet him before they set off down the hall towards Jonathan's room. 

 

“Oh, he’s amazing, as always, such a happy young man he is. Excited to see you, as usual. Oh.” Here she paused, throwing him a smile. “He made you something today in class, he is very proud of it.” She laughed, clasping her hands together, before they stopped outside room number 32. “I must admit, he has turned out to be quite the artist; it’s very interesting.” She opened the door, calling into the room. “Jonathan, dear, Mr. Carey is here to see you.” An excited shout met the two adults’ ears, and they shared a smile. Drew walked into the room and was met with a ginger haired blur that slammed into him with a hug. 

 

“Mista’ Carey!” Jonathan exclaimed, looking up into Drew’s eyes. His blue eyes were wide and happy, and Drew’s answering smile was just as happy. 

 

“Hey, Jonni, I keep tellin’ you to call me Drew, little man.” 

 

Jonathan scrunched his nose up adorably, his curly orange hair bouncing as he shook his head. “Mrs. Damshire says it’s rude ta’ call people by their firs’ names Mista’ Carey. I don’ wanna’ be rude.”

 

Drew laughed, his eyes crinkling. “Well, then. We wouldn't want to be rude then, would we?” 

 

Jonathan shook his head firmly, his mouth set in an adorable frown. “Nope.” 

 

Drew shared a smile with Valerie, and patted Jonathan on the shoulder. “Well then, what do you want to do today, Jon?” 

 

Jon jumped up and down in excitement, his pearly teeth showing in a wide grin, his eyes lit up. “I gotta’ show ya’ somethin’, Mista’ Carey, I made it just fer you!” 

 

Jonathan grabbed Drew and Valerie’s hand, and ran out of the room, dragging them out the door. Drew let the little ten year old boy drag them out the door, laughing the whole way along. Valerie smiled, looking at Drew.

 

“I’m glad I’m used to running after the little ones so much, or I wouldn’t be able to keep up with Jon’s energy.” She laughed.  

 

Jon eventually stopped them, and Drew noticed they had stopped in the art room. Jon ran over to one of the cabinets and rifled through it before bringing out a canvas. He shyly handed it to Drew, blushing and ducking his head, scuffing his shoes against the floor. 

 

Drew’s eyes widened. The painting was amazing! It looked like a self portrait, with vines bordering the frame, and a smattering of bright red roses and white lilies.

 

“This is amazing! Jon, this is incredible!” 

 

A sudden clearing of a throat behind them made Drew whirl around.  The sight of the balding man in a suit that was probably more expensive then two of Drew’s own caused Drew to raise an eyebrow.

 

“Yes, his art always is.” The man raised an eyebrow. “An’ who, may I ask, are you?” the man asked.

 

* * *

 

**Solo Chaos’ Part**

* * *

 

Jeff hadn’t known to expect when Mrs. Damshire told him the orphanage’s benefactor would be meeting with him. Hadn’t even known what to  _ think, _ actually.

 

“Does he usually visit new people?” Jeff asked one of his roommates.

 

Sean shrugged. “Depends,” he said. “Usually the older ones, though.” He casted a critical eye at Jeff. “How old are ya, anyway?”

 

“Thirteen,” Jeff said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. It was new, and he didn’t like it.

 

“Huh,” Sean said, going back to his book. 

 

“What, uh, what’s he like?” Jeff asked him, desperate not to go into this blindly. 

 

“Dunno,” Sean said, turning a page. “Never met him.” 

 

“Why’s he meetin’ with me, then?” 

 

“How the fuck should I know?” Sean snapped.

 

Jeff shrunk back, wincing at the profanity. Great. Now his roommate hated him. Swell one, Jeffy.

 

Sean sighed, closing his book. “I didn’t mean to upset ya,” he muttered.

 

“It’s okay,” Jeff said quickly.

 

Sean shrugged. “Just…” He paused, frowning a little. “I ain’t met him myself,” he said slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully, “but the other kids say that there’s something… funny ‘bout him.”

 

“Funny?” Jeff repeated.

 

“I dunno exactly what they mean,” Sean said, “but I’d just be careful. If I was you.”

 

“Jeffrey?” Mrs. Damshire said, poking her head into the room. “Mr. Mochrie’s here to see you.”

 

He felt an odd sense of foreboding as he followed the matron down the halls. What did Mr. Mochrie want? What would he say? Should Jeff run?

 

Not for the first time, he wished for his mother.

 

“Here you are,” Mrs. Damshire said, directing Jeff into a room. “Have fun!” she said, practically shoving him in before closing the door.

 

“Hello.”

 

Jeff turned around to see a young man sitting on one of the armchairs in the room. He looked relatively unassuming, but when Jeff met his eyes, he suddenly felt as though he were very, very small.

 

“Hi,” Jeff said meekly.

 

The man smiled at him. “Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing towards the armchair opposite himself.

 

Jeff quickly scrambled to obey. He wasn’t sure why he had such a strong desire to please the man, but he did.

 

“I’m Colin Mochrie,” the man said. “Pleased to meet ya, kiddo.” He leaned forward and offered his hand.

 

“Jeff, sir. Jeffrey Davis,” Jeff said, shaking his hand the way his father taught him to: firm grip, eye contact, two or three shakes.

 

“Wonderful to meet ya, Jeff,” Mr. Mochrie said. “Good handshake, too. Very firm.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Jeff said, a little sheepish.

 

“Of course,” Mr. Mochrie said, leaning back. “Tell me ‘bout yourself, Jeff.” 

 

“Uh,” Jeff said. “I– I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir.”

 

“Whad’ya like to do?” Mr. Mochrie asked. “D’you play sports?”

 

Jeff shook his head. “No, sir. Not much of a sports fan.”

 

Mr. Mochrie raised an eyebrow. “What’s it that ya do, then, with your free time?”

 

Jeff shrugged. “I read, mostly,” he said. “Um. I do schoolwork.”

 

“Ah. A smart one, then,” Mr. Mochrie said. “I’ll tell ya, Jeff. I don’t got many of those workin’ for me.”

 

“What is it that you do, sir?” Jeff asked, feeling a sudden burst of courage.

 

Mr. Mochrie paused for a moment, cocking his head. A small smile graced his lips, just for a moment.

 

“You’re a bright kid, I’ll give ya that,” he said musingly, almost to himself.

 

“Th-thank you, sir,” Jeff said, a lilt in his voice making his gratitude sound more like a question.

 

There’s a pause.

 

“Tell me ‘bout your parents,” Mr. Mochrie said suddenly, leaning forward.

 

Jeff blinked. “I…” He swallowed. “What do you want to know?” 

 

“Did you like them?” Mr. Mochrie asked, expression inscrutable.

 

“Y-yes,” Jeff said, uncertain where this was going.

 

“What was it your parents did?” Mr. Mochrie said.

 

“My father worked in business, and my mother stayed at home with me,” Jeff said. He suddenly felt tears sting his eyes, and he quickly blinked them away.

 

“What sorta business?” Mr. Mochrie questioned.

 

“I, uh. I don’t know,” Jeff said, looking down.

 

Mr. Mochrie hummed. “Tell me, Jeff,” he said, clasping his hands together, “what is it that you want to do? Not as a job; just in your life.”

 

Jeff blinked, confused by the sudden change in topic. “I… I’m not sure, sir.”

 

“First thing that comes to mind,” Mr. Mochrie said.

 

Jeff bit his lip. “I… I guess I want to help people, sir,” he said. “My mama was a nurse before she had me. I… I think she’d like that.”

 

Mr. Mochrie didn’t speak for a long moment; he just studied Jeff’s face carefully.

 

“Well,” he said, standing up, “it was good to meet you, Jeff.”

 

Jeff quickly got to his feet. “You too, sir.”

 

“I’ll see you around, perhaps,” Mr. Mochrie said, heading for the door. He looked almost… disappointed.

 

“Okay,” Jeff said, watching as Mr. Mochrie opened the door and walked out.

 

He had the sudden feeling as though he’d narrowly escaped death.

* * *

 

**End Of Solo Chaos’ Part**

* * *

 

“Mr. Mochrie, sir!” Valerie exclaimed. “I thought you had left.” She paused. “Did Jeff say anything to upset you?”  

 

The man, Mochrie, Drew noticed, had a certain look that a lot of his business partners did, like they were putting up a front to hide the man beneath. It made him wary of just what the grey haired man was shielding from view.

 

“No, not at all Valerie.” Mochrie raised an eyebrow. “Why would he have upset me? Is Jeff upsettin’ folks a lot?” Mochrie frowned, shifting as if to leave. 

 

“No, not at  _ all _ , sir.” Valerie blushed, and Drew guessed she realized how her words sounded. “He’s just having a hard time lately, losing his parents so recently, and he isn’t the most social of boys.. .” She frowned. “He likes to read his mother’s old medical books. Doodles notes on his homework...” Valerie sighed. “He just sometimes lashes out. I hope someone will come and adopt him soon, but most people are looking for young children.” She shook her head. “It’s very sad.” Mochrie nodded, then his eyes slid to Drew, making the man straighten. 

 

After all, Valerie called the man sir, which meant that he must be someone higher than her, possibly her boss. 

 

“An’ who’s this?” Mochrie asked Valerie, not taking his eyes off of Drew, which made the man slightly uncomfortable. Valerie jumped, seeming to just remember Drew was in the room, and then her eyes shot to little Jon, who was staring at the exchange with wide eyes.

 

“Jon, dear, why don’t you go to your room, I’ll make sure Mr. Carey makes sure to tell you when he’s leaving.” Jonathan nodded silently, darting out of the room, not before sending Mochrie a smile, which the pale man returned. 

 

“Mr. Mochrie, this is Drew Carey, one Jonathan's regular visitors every Tuesday. Mr. Carey, this is Colin Mochrie, our benefactor and the reason why this place even exists. He created  _ Andrew’s Orphanage _ and regularly visits every Tuesday.” She smiled. “I’m surprised you haven’t run into each other sooner.”

 

Drew chuckled nervously. “Yeah,” he deadpanned, voice falsely amused. “That’s very strange.” Drew reached out a hand, the polite thing to do, and shook Mochrie’s hand, noticing the calluses in the man's hands that spoke of frequent, experienced gun usage. He gulped. His father had hands just like that, and he would know the feeling anywhere. The very unassuming man, with his thinning grey hair, and his dimples and puppyish brown eyes, clearly had more to him. Drew wasn’t sure he wanted to know what lied beneath that facade.

 

* * *

  
  


Clive found himself once again at another crime scene, this one a simple robbery this time. 

 

Shaking his head as the young man was taken away in handcuffs, his mind couldn't help but turn to another young man he had given bad news to recently. Poor Jeffery Davis, whose parents had died in a car accident. Or so they had told him. Well, they had died in a car, but it was no accident. Slattery had made sure to kill off McShane's right and left hands before going after Big Mike himself. While Slattery was reported to be a camp, dramatic fool, Clive and Howard Johnson both believed differently. Most of Slattery’s work, while seeming erratic at first glance, began to show calculation and cunning at a second, and downright geniusly thought out, planned, and well-maneuvered at a third. 

 

Jeff Davis was a victim of Slattery’s cunning, and as Clive watched the young man, who could only be 17 at the most, get pushed into the copper car, he wondered if Jeff would turn down the same road as his parents. 

 

Howard stood beside him today, his wife forcing him to go back to work after his overbearing hovering got to much to bear, and with a blooming crazy, absolutely bloody  _ mad,  _ idea in his head, he turned to Howard and spoke. 

 

“What do you think of me adopting a child?” 

 

Howard's absolutely stunned faced threw him into a fit of chuckles. 

 

“Sir? I'm not sure I follow you,” Howard's bemused face scanned his own. 

 

Clive began walking towards their own car, and after getting in and they were well on their way back to the station, he elaborated. 

 

“That boy, Jeffery Davis,” Clive looked sideways, gauging Howard's reaction before turning his attention back to the road. “Do you remember him? Black hair, blue eyes, tall for his age? The lad whose parents got knocked off by Slattery.” Howard nodded, a sad frown on his face. 

 

“Yes, I remember, it was the day before I asked for leave. I still can't believe Slattery waited so long to chill off McShane after bopping his two hands.” Clive nodded. 

 

“I want to adopt him,” he ignored Howard's sputtering and shocked face, and continued speaking. “I just watched a 17 year old boy ruin his life because of his parents’ mistake of not raising him properly. I don't want Jeffrey to make the same mistake as his parents.” Clive paused, his hands tightening, his knuckles stark white against the black leather steering wheel. “I fear that when Jeff learns of his parents occupation, and Slattery’s part in their demise, he will go on a path of revenge that will have him joining either Mochrie or Stiles’ Mob, perhaps even making his own. I don't want such a nice boy to go down such a dark path.” Clive pulled into the parking space reserved for him, and shot of the car. Turning his dark brown eyes to Howard's, he spoke again. “I want to save him from that fate.”  

 

Howard nodded, a small smile on his face. “You're gonna be a great dad.” 

 

Clive gave a weak smile in return. “One can only hope, my friend.” Clive sighed, gazing at the entrance to the station, his mind miles away. 

 

“One can only hope.”

 

* * *

 

Shifting in his seat, Drew stared at the young man before him. His grey hair was in no way an indicator of his age, and Drew thought that the man looked younger than his age of 33. But his eyes showed knowledge that no man his age should know. Drew had seen eyes like that in his days as a marine, and the years after. Hardened eyes. 

 

“Mr. Carey.” The man spoke, seeming to let the name roll on his tongue like a fine wine. “You want to adopt little Jonathan, yes?” The man shifted, crossing his right leg over his left knee, and sat back. He looked relaxed, but Drew could see that the man was still aware of his surroundings. 

 

“Y-yes, Mr. Mochrie, sir.” Drew cursed himself for stuttering. “But, unfortunately, they say my house is too large for a young boy, and I can't leave it, it's been in the family for generations - ” Mochrie nodded, and held up a hand, stopping Drew in his tracks. 

 

“What if I said I could fix that little restriction, an’ have ya’ walk outta’ here with Jon in a jiffy?” Drew narrowed his eyes. The sly smile the man was clearly doing nothing to hide made his gut twist and clench. 

 

“And what would I have to give you in return?” The man chuckled. 

 

“You’re quick, I'll give ya’ that, Carey.” The man leaned forward in his seat. “What I get in return, is your promise to keep your mouth shut, and that you join my group of…  business associates, and Jon when he's old enough.” Drew's eyes grew wide, and his face lost most of its colour. 

 

“You’re talking about the mob.” It didn't take a genius to figure it out. Mochrie was making no effort to hide his true nature. 

 

Mochrie nodded. “Though, now that ya’ know, ya’ really only have two options, Moneybags: join, or go fer a cement swim down da’ lake.” Mochrie’s grin was like a shark’s. “Your choice.”

 

Drew was a smart man. He knew when he was beat. 

 

“I’ll join. On one condition. I don't have to kill anybody.” He made careful to not mention Jon in the deal.  

 

Mochrie shook his head. “Of course not, Moneybags, you're jus’ gonna’ keep an eye on my products, on my finances, and investments.” He grinned. “An’ donate a few clams along the way, ya’ follow?”

 

“I follow.” Drew gulped. 

 

He felt like he had made a deal with the Devil himself. 

 

* * *

 

“Pigeon!” Tiny yelled, “Get your pudgy arse over ‘ere!”

 

Tony stared angrily down at the newspaper in his hand.

 

**Bodies Found In Santa Monica Warehouse**

**Connection To Tony “Tiny” Slattery?**

 

“Yes, boss?” Paul Merton drawled as he directed a bunch of goons to place the newest shipment of cocaine by the others. 

 

“How the bloody ‘ell did this fuckin’ ‘appen?” Tony hissed, shoving the paper into Paul Merton’s hand. 

 

Tony could see Merton’s face pale significantly as he read the headlines and the following words. It basically said that while the two bodies guns had only discharged two bullets each, there were six bullets discharged in total, one in each of the corpse's head. That meant whoever killed them was a better shot then two of Tony’s best marksmen. 

 

“ _ How _ could you ‘ave not  _ known _ of this Merton?” Tony gritted out, his teeth painfully clenched. This shouldn't have happened. This was the first time he had actually gone after the two mob bosses, and the failure of the task made him furious. He needed the two men out of his way, this city was his. After being deported out of Britain because of his drug cartel, only avoiding jail by ratting out his previous successor, he had wanted to own the city that he called his new home. And now his element of surprise was ruined! McShane almost ruined his plans in the first place, using his heart then trying to run to Stiles and Mochrie once he told him of his plans. 

 

“I dunno ‘ow this ‘appened boss!” Merton grimaced. “I swear, nobody knew ‘bout Higgins and Merkle bein’ there,” Merton growled, and Tony knew his pride was wounded. “But I’ll find out, boss.” Merton paused, noticing the cigarette Tony seemed to pull out of nowhere, since his suit didn't have any pockets. 

 

“‘Old on, where’d tha’ cigarette come from?”

 

* * *

  
  


Colin walked carefully, with Greg at his side, and his bean shooter in his hip holster, covered by his jacket. He didn’t expect any violence to happen at this meeting, but you never knew. Josie “Siren” Lawrence followed behind him, along with a few other goons, with Slugger bringing up the rear.  Stiles had requested this meeting, saying it was important. Reaching the club, which Colin was unsurprised to notice was one of his and Stiles’ favorite, they were met by the door by Daniel “Deadeye” Patterson, one of Stiles inner circle, judging by the tattoo behind his ear.  The man gave Colin a strained grin, nodding him through the door, and motioned for them to follow him. Colin didn’t like the pointy-faced British man, but he wisely hid it from Stiles whenever they had contact with each other. Over the past few weeks since their declaration of an alliance between the two mobs, they had met quite a few times, talking of territory, their goods and illegal shipping, and even talked about exchanging some of Stiles’ better quality goods for Colin’s better quality goods. Colin found himself enjoying the meetings, finding that he enjoyed Six-Six Stiles’ company and that they seemed to have an easy camaraderie. 

 

Colin snapped out of his thoughts when Greg nudged his side. Colin noticed they were arriving at the very back of  _ “The Cat’s Burnoose” _ , where the private meeting room was hidden behind a false bookshelf inside the casual meeting room. 

 

He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like this meeting.

  
  


“ _ He’s what?” _ Colin hissed, shifting unconsciously towards Greg.

 

Stiles gave him a grim nod. “Slattery’s sent Merton ta’ look fer whoeva’ shot his Hatchetmen an’ ruined his plan to put us in da’ lake.” Six-Six grimaced. “Merton is dangerous, despite his name, he can do more then get information. He’s Slattery’s best assassin, an’ he can hide his tracks like he was neva’ there.” Colin growled. Turning to Josie, he snapped at her.

 

“I want him dead, Siren. If he gets anywhere near Greg…” 

 

Josie nodded, her face set in stone. “Yes sir, I’ll have Pigeon dead by tomorrow.”  Colin nodded to the three goons behind her. “An’ if ya’ three breath a word, Imma’ gonna’ pop a cap so far up your asses, your grandkids’ll be shitten’ casings, ya’ follow?” Colin's eyes showed deadly intent, and the three men paled, nodding their heads. 

 

“Yessir.” Colin nodded, satisfied. 

 

“Slugger, I want ya’ ta’ make sure those three get home fine, ya’ follow?” 

 

Sherwood nodded, a smirk on his face, “Right away boss.” 

 

Colin nodded. “Good job, now scram.”  

 

By get home safely, Colin of course meant pop em’ and hide the bodies in the lake. Not that the three were aware, dim as they were. He wasn’t leaving his brothers safety to chance. Only those he trusted should know Greg was the shooter. He didn’t want Tiny anywhere near Gregory. He turned to Stiles. 

 

“If that’s all, I gotta go make sure Greg’s outta’ da’ line a’ fire till’ Merton is dealt with.” Stiles nodded, standing up, reaching his hand out to shake Colin’s. 

 

“I’ll see ya’ next time den’. Ya keep im’ safe ya’ here?” Colin nodded, his usually hard eyes softening at Stiles.

 

“Thank’s fer da’ concern. I’ll keep im’ close ta’ me.”

 

“I know he means a lot ta’ ya’-” 

 

“And  _ he _ is right here, an’ more den’ ready ta’ go.” Greg's snarky voice made their lips twitch.

 

* * *

 

As they arrived back at their house, a modest two story victorian home, Colin frowned as he began to cook them dinner. 

Just for a moment, when he was looking into Stiles’ eyes, the loneliness receded, and he felt his gut clench.

  
What did this mean?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment and kudos! it really does help!

* * *

 

**Solo Chaos Part**

* * *

 

Chip Esten hadn’t meant to be a tattoo artist.

 

It was something he fell into sort of accidentally. When he was fourteen or fifteen, young and stupid, he’d taken to street art. A fancy term for vandalism, really, but he preferred to think of it as street art.

 

He’d been caught, finally, by the heavily-tattooed owner of the shop whose building he was spray-painting. Chip had honestly thought he was going to be killed by the guy, or at least seriously maimed.

 

Instead, the man observed Chip’s work for a long moment before turning to Chip and telling him to finish it.

 

“What?” Chip had asked.

 

“It’s interesting,” the man had said. “Finish it, and I won’t call the cops on you.”

 

Chip may have known that he had no future, but he was still terrified of jail.

 

Needless to say, he finished his work.

 

“Good,” the man had said when Chip was done. “Tell me. Can you draw?”

 

Somehow, Chip found himself learning the art of tattooing, sketching out tattoo ideas, watching Fred tattoo clients, practicing on banana peels, before finally tattooing someone for the first time.

 

His first client had been Fred, the shop owner. Chip gave him a truly mediocre tattoo of a fish.

 

Fred had laughed when he saw Chip’s disappointed face.

 

“It’s okay, kid,” Fred had said. “It’s certainly better than my first one.”

 

Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, Chip sat in his tattoo shop. _His,_ now. Fred had died a month ago and left Chip the shop.

 

Today found Chip humming to himself as he sketched out a tattoo idea. It was a wolf, regal in his own right, gazing straight at the viewer.

 

He was shading the fur when he heard the door open. He didn’t have any appointments booked for today, but there were plenty of walk-ins.

 

“Sorry I didn’t call, Fred, but this was a kinda short notice–”

 

Chip looked up to see three men enter. The one who’d spoken stood in the middle, flanked by the other two men. The man in the middle looked vaguely familiar, but Chip couldn’t remember why.

 

“Where’s Fred?” the man asked, narrowing his eyes.

 

“He, uh.” Chip swallowed. It was still hard for him to talk about it. “He passed away. ‘bout a month ago.”

 

The man swore quietly, turning to the man at his right. They spoke to each other, too quickly and quietly for Chip to hear. It sounded as though they were debating something.

 

“All right,” the man in the middle said, turning back to Chip. “He needs a tattoo,” he said, pointing to the man at his left.

 

The man on the left smiled weakly.

 

“Well, okay,” Chip said. “You came to the right place,” he joked.

 

The man on the left smiled politely, but the other two man stared at Chip, unamused.

 

“Right,” Chip said hastily. “Well, sir,” he said, turning to the man on the left. “I’m Chip. How can I help ya?”

 

“I’m– I’m Drew,” the man said, shooting an anxious glance to the man in the middle.

 

“He’ll be gettin’ a C. On his shoulde’ blade,” the man in the middle said shortly.

 

Chip frowned. He’d heard of tattoos like that, but he couldn’t remember the meaning.

 

“Right, sir,” Chip said, looking for his booklet of font styles. “If you wanna look at the kinda lettering I can do–”

 

“I don’t think ya understand,” the man in the middle cut in, dark eyes flashing. “This is a specific kinda C.”

 

“I– I’m sorry, I don’t…” Chip suddenly paused, finally remembering why the man looked familiar. He only ever saw brief glimpses of his face, because Fred had always shoved Chip off into the back before doing business.

 

“Like this,” the man on the right said, seeming to take pity on Chip. He bent down, rolling up his pant leg. Chip stood up to get a better view.

 

It was a simple design, really. A dark, black C in serif font with what looked like horns at the top.

 

All of a sudden, it occurred to Chip what kind of situation he was in.

 

“I don’t– I don’t know…” he stammered, backing up. He’d seen that design in the folder Fred kept hidden inside the desk, along with other designs, more familiar ones.

 

Specifically, paw prints and Xs.

 

These were gang members.

 

“I’m afraid ya don’t gotta choice,” the man in the middle said calmly. “I’d hate to think of you having… an accident.”

 

Chip swallowed. God, what had Fred gotten him into?

 

* * *

**End Of Solo Chaos Part**

* * *

 

 

Clive's second impression of Jeffery Davis was that the boy was very timid but also very perceptive.

 

Jeffrey didn't ask many questions when Clive offered to adopt him; he only said that he would like to be adopted. Clive's only worry was that he wouldn't want a 25-year-old gay cop as a father, but Jeff said yes anyways, much to his relief.

 

Jeff didn't talk much on the way to Clive's house after he had signed the last form a week later, and Clive would be worried that Jeffery was upset if it wasn't for the perceptive looks that Jeffery shot both Clive and his surroundings on the drive and when they arrived at his house. Clive noticed that as Jeff explored the house, Jeffery noted and explored all the exits and escape routes, as well as snooped in closets and drawers. Thankfully, Clive had nothing untoward in his house, other than maybe a few special… toys..  that he kept in a box on the top shelf in his closet, too high for Jeff to reach. Though, by the look of Jeff, he would grow quite a bit. Clive thought with a wry smile that he might even get close to Six-Six Stiles height.

 

Jeff had decided to keep his last name, and Clive agreed, wanting the boy to make his family name into one that people didn't think of his parents' mob affiliations when it was mentioned.

 

Jeff had finished his inspection and had stood in front of him for a minute before smiling and pulling him into a hug, which Clive returned, his chin on top of Jeff's head.

 

“Thank you,” the boy whispered, sniffing.

 

Clive smiled. “Welcome home Jeffery.” Jeff pulled away and gazed down at his feet, looking uncomfortable. Clive smiled gently at the young teen.

 

“Why don't we get dinner going, would you like to help me?” Jeffrey looked up with large eyes through dark lashes. It was adorable, really. He nodded, slowly.

 

“Can we have Shoelaces and Baseballs? Mama used ta’ make me that..” Jeff mumbled. Clive was confused before he realized he must be talking about spaghetti and meatballs.

 

“Of course, Jeffery, I’m sure I can find the ingredients.”

 

Jeff smiled and followed Clive into the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Ryan put the phone back on his desk, sighing heavily and running his hands through his hair, clenching his hand in the blond strands. His green eyes screwed shut, and his mouth twisted in a snarl. He growled, his frustration echoing in the empty room. He had been in the alliance with Coli- Bull Mochrie for four months now. Col- Mochrie had only just come out of his self-imposed house arrest with Gre- Proops. Mochrie and Proops had kept in contact with him for the whole 4 months of hiding that Coli- Mochr- _oh, fuck it._ That _Colin_ had put them both in. Over the last six months that they had been in contact, Ryan had begun to experience… feelings for Colin. His stomach would flutter, his brain would slow, and he would find himself thinking about the man fondly and smiling when they talked on the phone, his eyes turning soft when they spoke. He found himself even becoming fond of Greg, who always seemed happy to talk to him as well. At first, Ryan only put up with Gregory’s meaningless chatter about his day, the government, what was on the television, but his sarcasm and dry wit had started to make him smile and chuckle over the time they had been in contact.

 

All these feelings… Ryan didn't know what to do with them. He wasn't used to feeling more than respect for people- at the most- not… love. And he was smart enough to know that was what he was feeling for Colin. Greg was… a friend. Probably the closest friend he had ever had in his entire life.

 

He didn't like it.

 

Ryan was Six-Six Stiles; he was ruthless, heartless, cold-hearted, and had no mercy.

 

He was _not_ a simpering love sick _dame_.  

 

But his feelings and actions showed differently.

 

And he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do about it.

 

* * *

 

Colin hung up the phone, smiling softly. Turning around, he saw that Greg was giving him a knowing look. Colin shook his head, blushing slightly.

 

“Should ya’ really be doin’ this, brotha’? Afta’ tha’ last palooka’.” Gregory’s face darkened. That rat ended up swimming with the lake’s fishes.

 

“I dunno’ Gre’, but e’s. .. different-”

 

Greg snorted. “Yeah, an’ he's frickin’ dangerous, Col. Why da’ fuck did ya’ hafta’ choose da’ man tha’ won' hesitate ta’ fill ya’ full a’ lead, kitten?”

 

Colin rolled his eyes at Gregory’s endearment.   

 

“I can take care o’ myself brotha’. I think he's changing,” Colin paused. “Wit’ me at least. He’s gentla’ wit’ me. Softa’.”

 

Greg shook his head, then pulled his brother into a tight hug.

 

“I hope you’re right, Col,” Greg sighed.

 

“I really do.”

 

* * *

 

Drew grinned as he watched Jonathan run around in his large backyard, the small cocker spaniel puppy Drew had picked up before bringing Jon home running with him, the little ball of fluffy bronze fur happily yapping, tongue hanging out in joy. They had just finished lunch, the remains of mac and cheese and a ham sandwich littered the plates on the outdoor porch table, an almost empty jug of fruit punch juice, and an empty bottle of beer sat in the middle of the table. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the lush greenery and garden gave the scene a magical feel. The sight filled Drew with joy. He had always wanted a kid, but never finding someone to settle down with, be they man or woman (though he preferred men, to be honest) had made the chances of adopting or having a child almost negative percent possible. He began to visit _Andrew’s Orphanage_ and he ran into Jonathan, who had been 6 years old at the time, 5 years ago. He instantly fell in love with the boy and tried to adopt him, but without a spouse or a significant other, and his house being so large, the Orphanage didn't think he was the best choice for little Jonathan. So he visited, every Tuesday, for 5 years.

 

Then he got his wish.

 

Drew frowned as he remembered the deal he made with Mochrie. The shark-like smile that Mochrie had given him when he took the deal still chilled him and the image of it still flashed in his mind.

 

He got his wish.

 

But at what cost?

 

* * *

 

Ryan smirked as he watched another shipment of cocaine float away in a boat on the way to Britain. It was highly paid for by a private buyer, and the money he had made for it was in the millions. He pulled out his checkbook, handing Wayne the signed check, and told him softly:

 

“Take dis’ ta’ da’ club,” Ryan smirked. “Da’ birds deserve some more pay. Lacy needs clams fer’ her kid. An’ Candy needs some fer’ her schoolin’.” Wayne carefully hid his smile. Ryan cared about his girls, despite his reputation, which was mostly truthful, he was still soft on those he cared for.

 

“Ya’ got it, boss.”

 

* * *

 

 

Clive  once again peered at the papers and evidence bags that detective Hillard had handed him. He was missing something from the McShane case, and he knew it. It had been a year since McShane's death, and Clive's adoption of Jeff, so Clive wasn't surprised when Jeff plopped down at the table beside him, looking over the notes that he, for the first time, had brought home with him in a last ditch effort to solve the case before it was marked cold.

 

He couldn't see why Slattery would kill off Big Mike, let alone burn his genitalia; he just couldn't see it!

 

“So Tiny was datin’ McShane?” Jeff’s comment caused his head to snap up, and to stare at the fourteen-year-old with wide eyes.

 

“What do you mean Jeffery?” Clive choked out; was it possible that a fourteen-year-old boy could see what he himself and a who team of detectives couldn't?

 

“Well,” Jeff started, gazing at the morgue picture of McShane's body, making Clive feel uncomfortable that he was allowing the fourteen-year-old to see it.

 

“He went after his, uh, privates, right? And he obviously felt betrayed by him for something. So maybe they were dating, and he got a woman on the side or something. Tiny finds out, kills him, and gets mad enough that he disfigured the...goods.”  

 

Clive stared at the scattered pictures and papers in shock. How could he have not seen it from this angle? He was gay, for God's sake! He should have been able to see it from Slattery point of view!

 

“I think you just solved the case for us, Jeff,” Clive whispered, hugging the teenager. “Thank you.”

 

“Can I go hang out with Sean and Jon now?”

 

* * *

 

**Solo Chaos’s Part**

* * *

  


Esten was an unexpected development in Brad’s life.

 

Mochrie had Brad check in on Esten every few days since they indoctrinated Carey. Just to make sure Esten wasn’t thinking about running to the police. Brad would walk into the tattoo parlor, threaten Esten with grievous bodily harm, and walk back out again.

 

He was pretty sure Esten got the message after Brad’s first few visits, but for a reason he didn’t want to think about too deeply, Brad found himself coming back again, again, again.

 

“Esten,” Brad said one day as he strolled into the tattoo shop.

 

Esten looked up from his desk. “Sherwood,” he said calmly. Brad wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point Esten stopped shaking in fear every time he saw Brad.

 

“I assume ya know why I’m here,” Brad said, crossing his arms.

 

“I do,” Esten said, going back to whatever he was sketching.

 

“I want a tattoo,” Brad found himself saying.

 

Esten blinked, looking up at him. “I guess I didn’t know why you’re here, then,” he said.

 

“...guess so,” Brad said, wondering what in the world possessed him to tell Esten that he wanted a tattoo. That was not what Brad had intended when he came here.

 

“Ya keep me on my toes, Sherwood,” Esten said, flashing a grin that made Brad’s insides squeeze.

 

“‘s why I’m here,” Brad said, carefully ignoring his reaction to Esten’s smile. Indigestion, probably.

 

“Whaddya want?” Esten asked, turning his sketchbook to a new sheet of paper.

 

“Somethin’ on my, uh.” Brad thought for a moment. “My chest,” he decided.

 

“What of?” Esten said.

 

“Dealer’s choice,” Brad said, shrugging.

 

Esten’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really?” he asked.

 

“Yeah. Nothin’ shitty, though,” Brad said, narrowing his eyebrows.

 

Esten held his hands up. “I’m an artist of integrity, fella,” he said.

 

“Sure, sure,” Brad said, rolling his eyes. “So? What’s it gonna be?”

 

“Your tattoo?” Esten said. “Uh. Gimme a minute.” He got off his chair and knelt down, starting to pull out various binders and flipping through the pages. “This,” he said finally, pulling a sheet of paper out and handing it to Brad.

 

It was a drawing of a wolf. The lines were dark and thick and messy, but in a good way. The wolf was staring straight forward, poised and defiant, and Brad took a deep breath.

 

“It’s perfect,” he said honestly.

 

Esten looked at him. “Really?” he said. “Ya sure? These things are forever, ya know.”

 

“I don’t have a forever,” Brad said. “Tattoo me.”

* * *

**End Solo Chaos’ Part**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment and kudos! it really does help!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of smut, as an apology that I'm slow on this. It's my first smut, ever. that I've ever written in my life. I hope it's not horrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my first smut, ever. that I've ever written in my life. I hope it's not horrible. please comment so I know what you think!

“Mochrie,” Stiles said, and Colin’s lip twitched.

 

“Stiles,” Colin replied, signaling to a waiter to come over.

The man bustled over looking harried and impatient, as the place was currently very busy for this time of night.

 

“What can I help you with, sir?”

 

Colin looked through the wine menu carelessly before giving up without so much as a sigh. He never could tell the difference, as much as Greg tried, he never was able to get his older brother to care much about the difference between wines. Much to his brother chagrin “A bottle of your best an’ finest wine, an’ some bread, if ya’ please.” He ignored the waiter’s wince and grimace at his accent, far too used to it, and turned to Ryan, not even noticing as the waiter left to attend to another table. They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither of them looking away from each other's eyes, neither of them willing to say what was on both their minds, even though they were very aware of what it was.

 

“Here is your wine, sirs, a delicate 1976 Chardonnay, from Burgundy and a basket of baguettes.” The waiter gave them a strained smile, as they had not looked away from each other yet. “Call me when you decide on the food.”

 

Without looking away, Ryan spoke to the waiter with a dismissive tone, making the waiter scowl;

 

“We won’ be havin’ any right now.” The waiter huffed, and flounced off.  Colin smirked.

 

“I guess we both know what we’re ‘ere for eh, Ry?” Colin purred, tapping his fingers against his wine glass, enjoying the resulting sound, before swirling it delicately, sniffing the fine aroma of expensive wine, then sipping it.  Ryan growled;

 

“Then why are we sittin’ ‘ere, Col?” Ryan rolled the words off his tongue, the tone as smooth and seductive as the wine he was tasting, and Colin felt a tightening in his groin make itself known.

 

When the waiter returned, he found cash at the table, and no sign of the two mob bosses.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the two mob bosses had entered Colin’s house, they were all over each other, hands brushing skin and leaving searing tingles behind, mouths attached to throats and jaws, licks and nips, sucking and biting at each others exposed skin. When the lock clicked behind them once they had reached what Ryan presumed was Colin’s bedroom, and they were left only in their pants, Ryan took charge, slamming the much stronger, but shorter man into the wall. He traced his tongue around the shell of the shorter man’s ear, his breath caressing the skin making Colin shiver.

 

“I’m gonna’ fuck ya’, until you’re screamin’ my name so loud the fuckin’ vatican is gonna echo with it,” Colin panted, his arousal hardening even more then it was, almost painfully so. “But first, I’m gonna’ pleasure ya’ nice an’ slow like,” Ryan grinned like a shark, he could see the frustration in the hazel eyes of his soon-to-be-lover, and it just made him impossibly harder, pre-cum wetting the front of his pants.

 

“You’ll be beggin’ for my cock.” Colin snarled, showing his teeth at Ryan’s words.

 

“I don’t beg, to _anyone_.” Ryan didn’t have to worry about his words not having a positive effect on the other man, for two reasons; One, Colin’s cock looked almost painfully hard, straining against dark pants. Two, if he so desired, Colin could have Ryan restrained and on the floor within seconds. Ryan had seen Colin's strength, agility, and flexibility, and he was not ignorant that if it came down to it, Ryan would be dead on the floor before he even reached for his gun.

“We’ll see about that,” Ryan whispered into the older man's ear. He dipped his head, running his nose along the column of the pale throat that Colin revealed to him, slowly, sensually, until he reached the man's hair then breathed in, inhaling the man’s scent, his unique musk.

 

Ryan spun them both around, grasping at Colin's broad shoulders, and walked forward, making Colin back up until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Ryan then gently picked the man up, careful to not hurt his back, and placed him softly on the bed. He could see the confusion on Colin’s face, at his gentleness, and the careful way he was handling him.

 

“Like I said, I’m gonna’ pleasure ya’, until you’re beggin’ for me ta’ fuck ya’, ta’ put my cock in your warm, wet, quivering hole, then I’m gonna’ pound inta’ ya’ hard an’ fast, an’ you’re gonna’ beg me ta’ let ya’ cum, and when ya’ do, you’re gonna be screamin’ my name.” Colin’s pupils visibly dilated at that, and the older man’s breathing picked up noticeably, even if the rest of his face was kept blank. Ryan grinned at the challenge presented. He loved challenges.  

 

Ryan leaned forward, capturing Colin’s soft lips with his own, and he traced the soft petals with his tongue, asking for entrance, which he was given. He caressed Colin’s tongue with his own, hearing the moan deep in the man’s throat he tried to conceal, and with his hand that wasn't holding him up, he began to stroke the skin of Colin’s chest, starting at the collarbone. When he reached the man's nipples, he thumbed the right one, rolling the bud in his large fingers, he put just enough pressure to be on the edge of pleasure and pain, smirking into the lips his own were attached to when he heard the hitch in the man’s breathing. Detaching his hand from that nipple, he gave it a flick, resulting in a twitch from the cock digging into his stomach. He reached for the other nipple, giving it the same treatment, and this time the older man could not contain his moans the sound vibrating through each other, making them both moan even louder.  

 

Ryan detached his lips from Colin’s, the now very aroused man tried to follow him, but slammed his head back into the pillow, releasing a loud whimper when the mouth that left his lips, attached itself to his nipple. Ryan gave a hard suck, and traced the bud with his tongue, making the other man cry out, and then blew gently on it, getting a moan from the man.

 

“Ry…” Ryan raised an eyebrow, his smirk challenging Colin.

 

“Ya’ ready ta’ beg? Cuz, I’m jus’ gettin’ started.” Colin’s eyes flashed, and he smirked.

 

“Never.” Ryan grinned.

 

With both hands free, he started unbuckling Colin’s pant’s, and used his free mouth to attach his mouth to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment he gave to the other one, only this time, he gave it a bite just on the edge of painful, tugging at it with his teeth. Colin sucked in a deep breath, the air hissing between his teeth, and his hands, previously clutching at the bed in a harsh hold, shot up and buried themselves into Ryan’s shoulders. Ryan finally got the pants off the man, unsurprised that the other man, like himself, went commando. Releasing the nipple from his mouth, Ryan kissed his way slowly down the pale man’s torso, leaving licks and bites on his way down, getting whimpers, moans and gasps for his efforts, but Colin studiously refused to speak, before reaching the curly dark brown hairs that surrounded the base of Colin’s straining and painfully erect member. Breathing in through his nose, he inhaled the heady musk that was all Colin and licked his lips, his own arousal twitching in want. He spoke then, his words soft and dangerous, his breath fanning over Colin’s thick cock, which some part of him noticed had to be almost nine and a half inches long.

“Last warning; Beg, an’ I’ll fuck ya’ right here an’ now. Don’t, an’ I’ll keep goin’.” Colin’s only reply was a stifled moan as Ryan’s breath tickled his cock, and his hands clenched harder into the tall man’s shoulders.

 

Ryan chuckled, and suddenly engulfed Colin’s cock in one go, years of practice from things he’d rather not remember making it possible to swallow the large and engorged member. Colin immediately screamed in pleasure, his back arching and his fingers dug impossibly harder into Ryan's shoulders, making the younger man’s cock twitch, and making him moan, the vibration and stimulation on Colin’s cock making him hoarsely cry out, and for the first time, actually speak;

 

“Oh, God, Ry...more..” Ryan ignored it, as they weren’t the words he wanted to hear, but bobbed his head up and down, using his tongue to caress and tease the stiff flesh in his mouth, pre-cum running in rivers own his throat, and Ryan closed his eyes in pleasure at the taste of Colin in his mouth. He traced every inch of the hot flesh in his mouth, gaining whimpers and moans from the now thrashing man underneath him.

 

“Ry, Please, more… I need-” Ryan grinned, using his tongue to tease the slit on the head of Colin’s cock, making the man cry out.

 

“Ryan-” Ryan released the member, ignoring the cry of anguish he caused by doing so.

 

“What do you need, Col?” Colin whimpered, his eyes wide, and glazed, his hair disheveled, and his mouth parted and wet. His cock glistened with saliva and precum, and Ryan found his dick twitching painfully in his pants. He reached down and unbuckled them, pushing them swiftly off, his cock bobbing in the air, and he noticed that compared to Colin’s nine inches, his eleven dwarfed the man’s, considering he also had girth as well.

 

“You’re huge…” He heard Colin whimper, and when he looked up, for the first time since they met, he could see a hint of fear in the older man’s eyes as he stared at Ryan’s cock. Ryan could see that Colin was still fully erect, so he hadn’t scared him off yet.

 

“I said I’d make ya’ scream, but not in pain, Col,” Ryan said, suddenly gentle. “I can’t say I won’t be upset, but we can stop now if ya’ want.” Colin shook his head violently.

 

“Fuck me. Now.” Ryan grinned.

 

“Beg.” Colin’s cock looked painfully hard, and Colin looked like he was struggling even harder with his pride, so Ryan decided to give him a little push. Over the proverbial cliff.

 

Ryan reached for Colin’s cock with one hand, jerking him off, much to Colin’s pleasure, and with the other hand he teased the entrance to Colin’s hole, circling the furled skin lightly. Colin’s cries of pleasure filled his ears, and Ryan began talking, his voice deep and smooth.

 

“Do ya’ want me ta’ fuck you? Ta’ breach the tight, wet hole of your’s with my big cock, stretch your ass till it’s wide an’ read for my dick, an’ fill your needy ass with my hardness, fill ya’ up, plug ya, make ya’ mine?” Ryan could _hear_ Colin’s resolve breaking, and grinned, continuing. “Do ya’ want me ta’ pound ya’ hard an’ fast, ta’ stretch that hole so much that when I cum inside your sweet ass that I have ta’ get a plug ta’ keep it closed an’ mark your insides with my seed?”  Ryan could feel the moment Colin broke and grinned when he finally heard the words he was waiting for.

 

“ _Yes_! Please, fuck me, make me your’s, please Ry,” Colin cried out, gasping and panting, his hands clenched in the sheets and his body shone with sweat and pre-cum.

 

“Good.” Ryan Immediately pulled out the bottle of lube he concealed in his discarded pants and poured a fair amount on his fingers. He circled the tight entrance to Colin’s body until it relaxed, and entered with one finger, stretching it around, then two, then three, then four, just to be safe. He made sure to play with the little bundle of magical nerves so that Colin wouldn't feel so much pain, and by the time he was ready, the man looked even wilder than before. He placed himself at the entrance to the willing body beneath him, hesitating, but the murderous look that Colin sent him at his hesitation left him knowing that if he didn’t fuck him _right now_ , his balls would be removed from his body and fed to him with no water to wash them down. He moved.

 

Thrusting into the tight, wet passage was like heaven. The constricting, velvety heat surrounded his cock and made his head swim.

 

“Fuck, you’re tight-”

 

“ _Move_.” the growl was clearly a command, and even if he wanted to, which he didn't, he couldn't ignore it.

 

He thrust in and out, slowly at first, and then began to speed up, the room filled with moans, panting, and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Ryan, true to his word, began to pound faster and harder into Colin, resulting in screams of pure pleasure from the man as he struck Colin’s prostate with every thrust, both of them getting closer and closer to the edge.

 

“God- Col-, you’re so hot and wet, tight uhhn…”

 

“Ry-Harder, fill- uhn- fill me- you’re so big-” Ryan pounder harder and longer, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in on each thrust, making sure to hit Colins prostate on each turn. Ryan could tell they were clos and reached to start jerking off Colin, and it didn't take long before the man was spurting out hard into his hand, screaming out Ryan’s name just like the green eyed man promised. The resulting extreme tightness in Colins passage made Ryan cum at almost the same time, filling the now pliant body beneath him with ropes of seed, and when it finally stopped, Ryan collapsed on top of Colin, panting.

 

Ryan noticed with some amusement that Colin had already fallen asleep, and found himself wanting to do the same thing. Not wanting to leave the warm embrace of the man under him, he didn't even bother to remove his cock, just snuggling deeper into the the man he loved, falling asleep almost instantly.

 

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my first smut, ever. that I've ever written in my life. I hope it's not horrible. please comment so I know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and Co-Authored With SoloChaos.
> 
> Please Comment, Kudos, and Subscribe!


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